The Ghost Slept Over Read online

  “Aren’t they cruel?” I said, sipping the mocha latte.

  He giggled. “Someday I’ll get a two bedroom. After I’ve saved up another down payment. Especially if prices stay where they are. I plan on keeping this condo, though, and renting it out. Eventually, I’ll buy a house and rent out the second condo. I’m thinking of getting a real estate license. Did you know you can use your commission as part of your down payment?”

  “No, surprisingly, I did not.”

  “That’s why I’d get the license. I don’t actually want to be a real-estate agent. But if I buy three or four properties in the next five or six years putting the time in to get my license will pay off handsomely.”

  Given the way he stared at me, and the way he lost focus when I licked some whipped cream off my upper lip, I was sure he was trying to pick me up. He was just doing it in the most roundabout, un-seductive way. To end the suspense I said, “You know, I’ve never actually seen a repossessed condominium.”

  “Well, they look just like—Oh! Um, yes, would you like to come over and see it?” He blushed a pretty pink.

  “That would be lovely. Yes.”

  “Would you like another mocha latte for the road?” he asked, politely. I could tell he didn’t really want to pay for another four-dollar coffee. I suspected he had his budget planned out to the tenth of a cent.

  “Oh no, I’ve barely touched—” But when I looked down I realized I’d finished the drink entirely. “No, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  Todd’s apartment added up nicely. It was built in the seventies and was basically a white box divided equally into two rooms. He’d carefully furnished it from a catalogue, presumably with pieces that had been sufficiently marked down. On the walk over, he had stopped talking about himself and begun to ask questions, many of which weren’t exactly about me.

  “So, how old are you?” he asked. All right, that one was about me.

  “Thirty-seven.” Ish.

  When we got into his apartment, he said, “You’ve been an actor a long time.” Which was not especially flattering. “You must know who’s gay and who’s not.”

  “Well, it’s not as though I’ve been doing a field study.” Actually, since I avoided sex with artistic people whenever possible, I didn’t have much of what you’d call “first-hand” knowledge of who was gay and who was not. Most of my information I got off the Internet.

  Without even offering me a glass of wine, Todd began naming actors and asking if I’d slept with them. I wondered for a moment if he was actually a plant sent by my agent. Would they really pay me to do a play about people I slept with? Should I consider stringing together an hour’s worth of lies?

  To shut Todd up, I leaned over and kissed him. He was fast with his hands and he quickly had Rock Hudson’s pants around my ankles and my dick in his hand. I broke away for a moment and asked, “Should we go into the bedroom?”

  He just smiled at me and led me out of the living room. Well, first I untangled myself from my costume, folded it and set it on the sofa. I had a performance in Reseda the following week and really couldn’t afford for anything to happen to Rock’s suit. Without needing to check, I knew that a trip to the cleaner’s was not in my budget. Wearing just the white oxford shirt, I followed Todd into the bedroom. As we stood next to the bed, Todd did just about the worst thing anyone can do when it comes to my sex life. He handed me a pillow.

  In Lust/Anger/Joy the “climactic” scene for many comes about thirty minutes into the film. It’s a scene in which my character is fucked face down on a bed. In the throes of passion I very nearly eat the pillow. Of course, while filming we simulated the scene—something no one seems to believe which may be why, in real life, I’ve been asked to re-enact it many times. In the first flush of fame after the film came out I didn’t mind so much. Occasionally, it was a lot of fun. After a while, it became a sticking point...so to speak.

  I stared at the pillow for a moment, then said to Todd, “This doesn’t feel like it’s about me.”

  He looked confused. “Does it need to be?”

  “Yeah, it does,” I said, handing him back the pillow. “When you hit forty you’ll understand.”

  “I thought you said you were thirty-seven.”

  “I was never good at math.”

  He held the pillow out again and said “Please?” in that twenty-something way that tends to get young men exactly what they want. This time it didn’t. I walked into the living room and began to put my Rock Hudson costume back on.

  “We could do something else,” Todd suggested, a bit of horny desperation in his voice.

  “Well, that might work,” I said. The boy was awfully cute, and his bed looked very com—

  “There’s this other scene were you give that guy a blow job in the kitchen,” he said in a rush.

  Really, there’s much more talking in the film than you’d think. And the characters are actually multi-faceted. It just sounds like soft-core porn.

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “But...no.”

  “Oh. I wanted to tell my friends I had sex with the guy from Lust/Anger/Joy.”

  “No dear, you wanted to tell them you re-enacted the film with me. There’s a difference.”

  I exited the apartment with a flourish, and slept in my truck.

  * * * *

  About six, the sun woke me up. When you sleep in a truck, you tend to get up with the sun. I went back to Hot Times, which had just opened, and bought myself a large cup of black coffee. I asked the barista with the blue and orange Mohawk for a pen and, after a little bit of sass, he grudgingly gave me one. Finding a table, I grabbed a copy of the L.A. Times and began to make myself a to-do list over an article about global-warming. I might have read the article; I certainly had enough time. But when you’re homeless the eventual homelessness of the entire human race pales by comparison.

  On my to-do list I wrote the basics. Find a place to live. Get some money. You’ll note that I didn’t write get a job. I had a job. I was an actor. An actor who’d made fifty dollars that week and would likely make fifty dollars the next week from the Reseda gig. That reminded me. I needed to put forty dollars of this week’s earning into the truck’s gas tank so I could get to Reseda. I also needed to call that lawyer back. Given my financial situation, if I were being sued I’d at least get a good laugh out of it.

  I pulled out my smart phone, which I’d smartly charged with the little cigarette lighter attachment Matthew had purchased for me as a lovely parting gift. I dialed the lawyer’s number and waited. Not knowing where the area code actually was, I half expected to get voicemail. Instead a deep, masculine voice answered the phone. That was when I realized I’d taken the number but not the lawyer’s name.

  “This is Cal Parsons. I believe you’re trying to reach me?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. I’m Dewitt Morgan.”

  “Hi, Dewitt, it’s nice to meet you. I think.”

  “I sent you a certified letter. You didn’t get it, did you?”

  “No. I’m no longer at that address.”

  “Which address?”

  “Whichever one you sent it to.”

  “I see, well,” he sighed heavily. “I represent McCormack Williams.”

  Oh shit, I thought. I am being sued. It would be just like Mac to try to ruin my life even though we hadn’t seen each other in—

  “I’m afraid he’s, well, passed away.”

  “Oh. Oh really?” Instantly, I was suspicious. Mac was too evil to die. I wondered if I was being punked. Given that there was a strong possibility Mac was on an extension I asked, “Did someone finally shoot him?”

  “What? Why would you—No, I’m afraid he overdosed on prescription medication. It may have been accidental.”

  “Of course it was accidental. Mac would never commit suicide. He’s too competitive.” But then I remembered Hemingway had killed himself, so had Virginia Woolf. And Sylvia Plath. Could killing himself have been a bid for immortality? Or worse, a marketing plo
y? “When did it happen?”

  “Three days ago. I’m sorry. It’s been difficult to find you.”

  “I’m…touring.”

  “Oh. Are you a musician?”

  “No, I’m an actor.”

  “I see.”

  Why did people always sound so disappointed when I said I was an actor? I wondered for the briefest moment. And then wondered aloud, “Wait a minute. Why did you need to find me? I haven’t spoken to Mac in at least a decade and a half.”

  “Really? How strange.”

  “You didn’t actually know Mac, did you?”

  “No, I knew him quite well. I’ve been his attorney for several years.”

  We were silent, having established that he was in the McCormack Williams’ fan club and I was not. “Well, thank you for calling to let me know.”

  “Hold on, please. I’m calling to tell you that I’m the trustee of Mac’s estate.”

  I couldn’t see why that would matter to me. “Do you want a gold star?”

  “You’re the beneficiary of the trust.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And the will, of course.”

  “Wait, which— Are we talking about a will or a trust?”

  “Both. The trust holds the assets while the will—”

  “I’m confused.”

  “McCormack Williams left you his estate.”

  After a moment of shock, I asked, “Exactly how much money does there have to be before you’re allowed to use the word ‘estate’?”

  “Um...well, none, from a legal standpoint. I mean, even if you’ve only got a couple dollars it’s still called an estate.”

  “Ah, let me guess. He went bankrupt right before he died. And this is his idea of a joke.”

  “You know, I’m not sure dying is such a great punch line.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine Mac actually leaving me money.”

  “No, he did. In fact, the estate is quite…robust.”

  “Okay, robust is a very non-specific word. Exactly what does the robust estate consist of?”

  “Well, there’s his home here in Marlboro Township, several additional properties, the copyright to his plays, residuals from the films he wrote, various retirement accounts, a well diversified stock portfolio, bonds, of course, mutual funds, several annuities. You know we really should discuss this when you get here.”

  “Uh-huh, all together that’s how much money?”

  “Roughly three million give or take.”

  And that’s when I hooted loud enough to scare myself.

  Chapter Two

  The Show Won’t Go On

  Law school is useful for many things; working as a small town lawyer does not happen to be one of them. I spend much of my time holding hands, shaking my head sympathetically, and saying useful things like, “I completely understand.” A few advanced classes in psychology would have been more helpful. From time to time I write a will, or a trust, or draw up incorporation papers for a new bakery. Last year’s highlights included a divorce settlement that almost became uncivil, defending a teenager who’d attempted to turn in a four foot tall homegrown marijuana plant as his science project, and negotiating the end of a longtime family feud only to see it reignite two months later.

  My practice is in Marlboro Township, a town of about five thousand, which consists of eight or ten intersecting streets: a not-so-thriving business district on Towey and Main, a sandy beach, a municipal marina, and several blocks of grand old Victorian homes once owned by the great families of the area, many now owned and restored by out-of-towners who reside in them for a few weeks a year. We passed an ordinance against franchise businesses, so we don’t have a Starbucks, a Subway, or a 7-Eleven. The nearest big box store is ten miles away in Winton. And, yes, we do a lot of driving. It’s a sleepy kind of town where I live a sleepy kind of life. It suits me. I’m a sleepy kind of guy.

  My home is one of the few that hasn’t sold to a high-power New York couple desperate for a quaint weekend getaway. It has been in my family for more than a hundred years. I’m an only child whose parents retired, sold the house to me for a scandalously low price, and then moved to Panama where they made a sport out of living like kings on less than two thousand dollars a month.

  At the front of the house, there are two parlors, one of which serves as my office. Before me it was my father’s, and before him, his father’s. The furniture is mahogany and heavy, and has been refinished at least twice that I know of. There is a large bookcase filled with legal looking books that are as old as the furniture. Most of my legal research is now done on my laptop, which usually sits in a corner of the large desk. There is a threadbare carpet that I liked too much to replace and mustard-colored drapes, which should have been updated years ago, but I just never get around to it.

  My father lived by the motto that lawyers were not dentists. Dentists, he felt, should have expensively decorated offices so that you knew people were willing to pay the ridiculous prices they charge to avoid pain. Lawyers, in his opinion, should not be showy about wealth. Most clients have a terror of being overcharged by an attorney, and a shabby carpet suggests it might not happen.

  After my phone call with Cal Parsons, I sat at my desk worried that my eardrum might be damaged. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to discuss a client’s estate with an heir. It wasn’t even the first time the heir was delighted to hear what they’d been left. It was the first time I might have been injured.

  We’d spent a few more minutes haggling about how his airplane ticket might be paid for. It was difficult explaining that the money wasn’t technically his yet, that there was a significant amount of paperwork to be done, and therefore I couldn’t just send him a plane ticket. Unless I paid for it out of my own pocket, something I had a strict rule against. As it turned out, the rule was pretty useful since he finally grumbled a little, then said something about liquidating his Ford stock. Apparently he was well off. That didn’t surprise me. In my experience, no one is as excited about receiving a large sum of cash as someone who doesn’t need it.

  In my day planner, I noted the quarter hour the phone call took and, with that out of the way, hurried to a meeting for The Barnyard Players held in the back dining room of The Steppin’ Inn. The Steppin’ Inn sat three short blocks from my house on the corner of Towey and South. From the front porch you could see the lake at the end of South. It was a three-story, white Victorian with too many rooms for most family homes these days and too few to be a bed and breakfast. A few years back it had been turned into a restaurant with the first floor divvied up into two medium-sized dining rooms, a dimly lit bar, and a cramped but workable kitchen. The second floor was turned into meeting rooms they rented out to the Chamber of Commerce and the Knights of Columbus. You could even get married on the second floor of The Steppin’ Inn if your extended family is not too large.

  When I walked into the back dining room, the entire board of directors was present. It was an emergency meeting—something that I imagined had piqued people’s interest—and I had called it. Present were: secretary Constance Crandall, member-at-large Grady Calpers, treasurer Kirby McCoy, artistic director and president Wendell Ripley, and vice president Jane Meeks. I served as general counsel. That didn’t give me the technical right to call a meeting. However, when I felt it important the board generally assented.

  Jane got me a black coffee and a bear claw—she was also a waitress at The Steppin’ Inn, which was why we had so many meetings in their back dining room. Then she sat down. When she did, all eyes turned to me.

  I took a sip of my coffee and pushed the sticky donut aside for later. “Well, as you all know our chief benefactor McCormack Williams has passed away.”

  “Offed himself,” Grady said under his breath.

  “Possibly, yes,” I conceded. “Now, well, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Worse than Mac dying?” Jane asked.

  “I’ve been doing Mac’s legal work for six years—”

&n
bsp; “Seven,” Constance interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I sold Mac his house seven years ago. Right after that the Eames’ claimed he was infringing on their property line. You handled that.”

  The Eames family had several houses around the lake, owned by different family members, all with property line issues. Over the years they had probably paid for my car, while failing to expand their properties by one inch.

  “I stand corrected,” I said, giving Constance a nod. “I’ve been doing Mac’s legal work for seven years. About four years ago he asked me to create a revocable trust which included his entire estate.”

  Their faces were blank as they took a moment trying to grasp what this meant.

  “Oh my God, he left his entire estate to the Barnyard Players!” Kirby surmised.

  “No,” Wendell said. “Dewey said it was bad news.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The Barnyard Players are not part of the trust,” I said flatly.

  “Then we’re in his will, right?” Kirby was nearing seventy and taught acting at Winton Community College, though I believe his theater degree was actually in costuming.

  “No, I’m sorry. The will doesn’t deal with anything but his personal effects and instructions for his funeral.”

  “He didn’t leave us anything?” Wendell asked. “Not even The Red Barn itself?”

  The Barnyard Players performed in a converted barn named The Red Barn Theater on what had once been and was still called The Crandall Place. The Crandall house had been converted to a restaurant and was rented by the same ex-Manhattanittes who owned The Steppin’ Inn.

  “No, I’m afraid he didn’t leave us the barn. Or anything for that matter.”

  “But he loved The Barnyard Players,” Wendell said. “We meant a great deal to Mac. We were his heart...he said so.”

  “Yes and I’m sure if he had any inkling he was going to die he would have changed the trust to include the Barnyard Players.”